Searching for a Silver Lining
by Coolio101
Summary: Harry Potter: war-weary, resigned, tired and searching for peace. Salazar Slytherin: alone, hurt, with a deep curiosity about magic and a deeper desire to just be wanted. When fate brings them together, could each prove to be just what the other is looking for? Possible slash, rating may change
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: My first HP fan fiction, so any thoughts or criticism would be welcome. AU after fifth year._

_Disclaimer: I do not own HP, nor am I in any way the richest woman in Britain right now._

_A Short Summary of what happened before the prologue: Summer after fifth year, Voldemort attacks the Burrow. Molly, Arthur, Bill, Fleur,Ginny, Ron and Hermione die. Dumbledore tells Harry all he knows about horcruxes. Voldemort goes on an all out war. Harry receives training from Ministry and Order members; they turn him into a weapon. Meanwhile, he and Dumbledore also hunt down horcruxes. Dumbledore is killed in battle where Voldemort attacks St. Mungoes—in his grief, Harry gets kissed by a dementor and the last horcrux is destroyed. The war drags on another year, and Harry kills every Death Eater he can, earning him the nickname 'the Angel of Death'. Finally defeats Voldemort in Battle of Hogwarts at age 19._

**Prologue-**

"Leaving without saying goodbye, Harry?" A voice said behind him. Harry stiffened slightly, before turning around with a wry smile on his face.

"Good to see you too, Neville. Should I even bother asking how you knew about this?"

"Luna." Neville replied, with a shrug, at the same time that another familiar voice answered, "I told him, of course. Silly Harry, did you really think that you could get anything past me? Now, would you mind explaining why I had a feeling last night that I would find you in front of the Veil of Death this morning?" There was a slight shimmer in the air, as Luna dropped her disillusionment charm. Harry sighed; there was no way out of this that he could see, and really, he should have known better than to try and get something past Luna.

"Did you know that some scholars believe that the so-called 'Veil of Death' is actually a gateway to other worlds, not a means of execution?" Harry asked instead. "And even if I'm wrong, and this is a door to the realm of the dead after all…well, it's not like I don't have enough people on the other side to welcome me, right? Mum, dad, Sirius…Ron, Hermione…" Harry's voice thickened at the last two names. After his reveal at the Ministry almost four years ago, Voldemort hadn't held back. Having had a whole year to prepare and regroup due to the Fudge administration's incompetence, Voldemort was more than ready to take on the Wizarding World. He'd struck hard and fast, giving the Light Side no time to prepare or recover. His first major attack had been one on the Burrow—spies in the ministry had disabled their floo network, and when anti-apparition wards had been drawn up…they hadn't had a chance. The whole house, as well as the people inside it had been consumed by fiendfyre, leaving nothing behind except a flurry of ashes. While some Weasleys hadn't been home at the time—Percy was at the ministry, Fred and George were at their shop, and Charlie was abroad—they'd lost Arthur and Molly that day, Bill and his fiancé Fleur, Ginny, and Harry's two best friends: Ron, and Hermione, who'd been visiting. The worst part was, perhaps, that the attack had happened on Harry's birthday. He hadn't celebrated his birthday since.

"The thing is," Harry continued, "I can't stay here. Whether the Veil offers another world or death, either way, it's an escape. And after what I've been forced to do…what I've done, the wizarding world will be glad to see me go." He hadn't ever been the same after Ron and Hermione's back. Losing them, especially so soon after losing Sirius, had been the last straw on the camel's back (Voldemort sending his memory of the fire over the link hadn't helped things). Something in him had snapped then, the forgiving, naïve golden boy disappearing in the flames that had consumed the Burrow.

"Do you know what they're calling me these days? 'The Angel of Death'," a nickname that had first sprung up amongst the Death Eaters after Harry had cut loose, and then had spread to the light side after witnessing Harry singlehandedly massacring the group of Death Eaters who'd been sent to the Burrow. While many, including the DA, the aurors who'd fought with him, and his teachers at Hogwarts, stood by him after he'd defeated Voldemort in the single bloodiest battle in the Wizarding World in four centuries, the majority of the Wizarding world had begun to fear him and his powers after Voldemort had been obliterated. He'd done things that were supposed to be impossible; beating all three unforgivables, surviving the Dementor's Kiss (it had been shortly after Dumbledore's death at a battle for St. Mungoes when Harry couldn't muster up the happiness to summon a Patronus. Luckily, his infamous Potter luck kicked in and the Dementor had sucked out the Horcrux instead.), and defeating the greatest Dark Lord since Grindelwald at age nineteen. "Fitting name, isn't it?" Harry smiled bitterly. He turned back towards the Veil, the familiar weight of his sword, Thanatos, against his back. Shortly before turning 18, he'd begun looking for another weapon after his phoenix wand had snapped, and every other wand had felt lacking. Goblin made, specially crafted for him, forged in the hottest fires, and made from the finest steel-the sword was truly a masterpiece. Harry had poured his life energy and force into the making of the sword, and after it was finished and done, had soaked it in basilisk venom and dementor's blood, making it the deadliest weapon in recent history. Harry had named his sword—which was designed after the Japanese katana—Thanatos, after the god of death. Harry had found it fitting—after all, that sword had taken more lives than could be counted.

"If you're going, then we're coming with you," Neville said firmly. "I stood by you every minute of the war, and that's not going to change just because the Dark Bastard is dead." Harry sighed and turned to address his right hand during the war.

"Don't be ridiculous, you guys. Neville, I appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but Luna's five months pregnant. You guys have a bright future ahead of you, and I'm definitely not going to let you risk the baby on behalf of me." Harry turned back around again. "I left you two everything in the Potter and Black vaults. Distribute the gold among McGonagall, Kingsley and the others." Harry definitely didn't need many mementos from his old life. The only things he was taking were a couple hundred galleons, the photo album of his parents and the Marauders, another album filled with pictures of his friends and teachers, his invisibility cloak, and his sword.

"There's no way we can talk you out of this then?" Neville asked sadly. Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly tightening up.

"You know the answer to that," Harry replied hoarsely, before starting to walk towards the Veil. Determined to go or not, Neville and Luna were all that he really had now. Leaving them behind was almost as bad as losing Ron and Hermione.

"Wait." Luna said softly, before hurrying forward to his side and placing an exquisitely carved wooden flute in his hand. It had a vine like pattern and carved onto it were runes for safety, protection, peace, happiness and healing. "To remind you of us," Luna whispered. "I had a feeling we'd be saying goodbye today, and well… they say music is good for the soul." She reached up and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, her slightly swollen belly rubbing against his chest. A slight wetness seeped into his shirt and an answering moistness appeared in his eyes. "Take care of yourself, Harry." With that, she released her hold on him, and gave him a slight nudge forward. Giving the couple in front of him one last look—Neville, unwavering loyal and strong, who'd followed him into every battle and who had never turned his back on him; Luna, who looked like an angel with her kind, understanding eyes, luminescent skin and long blond hair forming a halo around her face—Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, then turned around and disappeared into the Veil his godfather did so many years before.

_A/N: Just an idea and some fooling around. Might be slash, who knows? Anyway, think it has potential?_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: First of all, a big thank you to all who reviewed. It really means a lot to me, and I'm glad for your support. Second of all, in response to reviewer BlueRoseUK, who was wondering why Harry was taking so many reminders of his old life if he wanted to start over. My answer is, yes, he does want a new start, and wants to just forget and heal. Even so, he cannot bear leaving his former life behind completely. As for his sword, let's just say he poured so much of his magic and himself into the making it that leaving it behind would be like leaving a piece of his soul behind as well. Hope that clears it up! Thirdly, I want to remind you that this story deviates from canon after fifth year, not to mention Harry steps through the Veil into an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. Not a parallel one, though there will be some similarities- an alternate one, as in one that is completely different from Harry's home universe. So don't start reading this with any preconceptions, okay?_

_Disclaimer: HP rights go to Jo Rowling and Warner Brothers._

**England, 9th century**

It had been three days since his mother had died.

Strange, isn't it, how so much can change in such a short time? Salazar mused. Only a year ago, his mother had stood with him in this very clearing in the woods. She'd looked beautiful, with her long, dark hair framing her face, like a woodland nymph surrounded by flowers. "Look, Salazar," she'd pointed out, "look at all the flowers blooming." Indeed, the meadow had been bursting with color, full of honeysuckle, primroses, and what seemed like hundreds of other varieties of wildflowers. The meadow was just as lovely a year later, yet it seemed lacking somehow without his mother there.

Her death had been neither unexpected, nor sudden. As much as he'd loved her- indeed she was the only person he'd ever loved—he had to admit Moira Slytherin wasn't the most physically strong woman. Born into a noble, pureblood family, she'd been the daughter of a lord, never wanting for anything. She'd met his father, Thurweald Slytherin, and while she hadn't loved him, had cared for him and had played the role of the perfect wife, as was expected of her. Her family had approved, and after she had gotten pregnant and the spells revealed that the child was a boy, it had seemed that nothing could threaten her contentedness. However, if Thurweald Slytherin had one weakness, it was that he loved to go out and drink. Even so, he was an honorable gentleman, and as he made sure he never got drunk around her, Moira permitted this vice. The day that, for lack of a better term, everything went to hell happened to be a day that Thurweald was out drinking. As it would happen, when he was more than slightly intoxicated, he ran into a rival of his. As Salazar could predict the first time he heard this story, this was the point when everything started to go wrong. Insults were thrown, then fists, and finally Thurweald's rival challenged him to a duel. Thurweald, in a moment of true, drunken idiocy, agreed. Spells were thrown for over half an hour, as both men were intoxicated to the point that any accuracy to their dueling was due more to accident than any amount of skill. Eventually, a lethal cutting curse was thrown, hitting Thurweald across the neck and slicing his jugular open when he tried to dodge, killing the senior Slytherin instantly. Since at this point in time, Moira was only four months pregnant and Thurweald Slytherin had no brothers, nephews, nor heirs at this point in time, everything went by right of conquest to his rival—including his wife and unborn child. Now if there was one thing Moira Slytherin was not, it was stupid. The chances of her husband's life long rival treating her well was slim to none and the chances of Salazar making it past the age of two under his care was even less. She knew that she couldn't go to her family for help, as every pureblood law decreed that she was now the property of her husband's killer, so she did the only thing she could—she stole a horse and a few pieces of jewelry that she later pawned off, and fled off to the least likely place anyone would look for a pureblood lady—a poor muggle village out in the middle of nowhere. There, she managed to make a living for herself and later, her son, by making poultices and potions for the villagers when they were sick. Life was hard on her, but she managed to live this way for fourteen, almost fifteen years before the worst winter in decades hit them. She'd had more patients than ever before, and while she wouldn't let Salazar do anything more than mix together a boil-curing potion, she was running herself raw. It really came as no surprise when she came down with a severe case of tuberculosis. Two hours before she died and what little potions ingredients they could scavenge from the nearby woods ran out, Salazar had been running from door to door through the village frantically, trying to find someone to help his mother. He'd been turned away eighteen times before he finally found someone willing to help—a fellow mother who had a son who's life Moira had saved—but by the time they reached his home, Moira had died in a coughing fit, choking on her own blood. Watching his mother die in such a painful way, Salazar could only bitterly think that she'd contacted the disease that finally killed her trying to save the very people who'd turned their backs on her once she was the one who'd needed _their _help.

He'd requested that the villagers cremate his mother, as he didn't think the tiny cemetery just outside the village a fitting place for his mother's body to rest. Instead, he'd taken her ashes to her favorite place in the woods, and had sprinkled them over the flowers that she'd loved so much.

"It's hard not to appreciate such a natural beauty when in a world where beauty is something so hard to come by," she'd said to him once, when he was younger and couldn't understand why anyone would want to spend hours just staring at _plants_. Moira had turned to him and smiled wistfully. "I didn't understand when I was your age either, but don't ever take beauty of any kind for granted. You'll regret it later."

Salazar sighed, looking around the clearing one last time, trying to imprint the image of it into his memory. It really was a peaceful place, and he could see why it had been so dear to his mother. He'd really only come here to lay his mother's remains in the place she'd always felt at home in and to say goodbye to her one last time (he doubted he'd ever be coming back to this place) and his few belongings were all back at the hut he and his mother had shared for the past fourteen years. Just before he turned and left, he pulled out his mother's wand, the one memento he had left from her. Pointing it at the trunk of a tree Moira had often sat against, he channeled his magic through the wand, carving words into the tree. As if sensing that this was a last favor for its now deceased owner, the wand obeyed easily. Then, without a second glance, Salazar Slytherin exited the clearing, walking swiftly back to the village, where he'd make a last stop to pick up his things before leaving. Without his mother, there was nothing left for him here anymore, and he had a world to see. Behind him, a message that said both everything and nothing at all glowed faintly on bark, still warm with magic: _Moira Slytherin, beloved mother and healer. May you find peace in death. _

Salazar ignored the whispers as he made his way back through the village. He had no intention of staying—of that, at least, he was positive. The thing was, he had no idea what else to do either. He had maybe a vague idea of going out and trying to find the pureblood society his mother had talked about so fondly. To a boy who had grown up in a one-roomed hut with a dirt floor, his mother's stories of large mansions, magic everywhere, and the elite class she'd grown up in sounded glamorous to the point of fantasy. While she hadn't exactly given up her magic, in order to not be completely ostracized from the other villagers, she couldn't exactly flaunt it either. And truly, magic was the biggest reason why he wanted to find the wizarding world. Magic had always fascinated him, and even at a young age, he'd always known he had a stronger control over his magical core than most. Magic was just one of those things that he _understood,_ like a tool, friend, and ally wrapped up in one. Of course, he'd only had his mother to compare his skills to, but she'd confessed that while all children manifested some accidental magic, it was never to the extent that he did. Moira tried teaching him all she could, but her education was limited, and soon he was exceeding her skills. She'd always been so proud of him, always maintaining that she was sure that someday he'd become one of the most powerful wizards in the world. Now, he was off to try and make that belief a reality.

Lora—the woman who had answered his pleas for help just before his mother died—was waiting for him at the door. She handed him a small sack filled with a loaf of bread, and some cheese. It wasn't much, but it had been more than he'd expected, and so he offered her a rare smile of gratitude.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly. Lora just gave him a stiff nod of the head in return.

"For your mother. She was a good woman," and then she was off. No questions about his welfare or what he planned to do now. Salazar found that he preferred it that way. No expectations, just one person paying off a debt to another. Hurrying inside, he took a few silver coins he'd been saving up, two water skins, a tattered blanket and the last pieces of stale bread he had left and added them to the sack. Then, tossing his sack over his shoulder he made his way to the fields on the southern side of the village, where a single road led away to the unknown. Though sometimes travelers and traders would come down that road into the village seeking shelter, he personally had never been on it. Now, leaving the only place he'd ever called home, he could feel a sense of sadness and longing. The village was by no means ideal, but the villagers were, if not exactly friendly, grudgingly accepting and it had offered a sense of security. Standing there without a home, nor a family, Salazar couldn't deny that no matter how eager or relieved he was to leave, at that moment he felt very, very, alone.

After five days of trekking down the road, Salazar began wondering if he'd ever see civilization again. He hadn't passed a single person since leaving the village, and now that his food was beginning to run out, he was seriously questioning the wisdom of leaving the shelter the village provided, no matter how confining it had seemed. He had no idea where the next village or town was, and the only way he knew where he was going at all was by following the stars and talking to the few snakes he managed to come across—a skill he had inherited from his father's side of the family, apparently. He was exhausted, and despite how hard he tried, he couldn't get his mother's last moments out of his head. Every night he'd wake up gasping, eyes wet with tears, the image of his mother choking on mucus and blood seared into the back of his eyelids. So it was that when he finally came upon a town, it didn't quite register at first. By the time he finished rubbing his eyes and confirming that yes, he finally had reached a town and it wasn't just a mass hallucination, he realized that nighttime was about to fall. Realizing that he still had around two miles to walk, he decided to sleep on the side of the road and enter the village tomorrow.

The first time Salazar Slytherin realized just how sheltered he was, was approximately thirty seconds after entering the town. After growing up in a small village with a population of around maybe sixty people, seeing over two hundred people bustling around all getting ready for the day was a bit of a culture shock.

"Out of my way, boy!" growled a burly man with a thick beard, shoving him into a nearby cart of apples. Landing painfully, Salazar sat up groaning only to be confronted with an angry woman glaring at him with eyes promising murder. Five minutes later, after picking up all the apples and apologizing profusely, he managed to escape, ears still ringing from where she'd boxed him. Muttering to himself darkly, he decided to find a place to eat as well as sleep for the night, keeping an eye out for any more scary women. He wasn't positive, but he was pretty sure he had just met a harpy like the one his mother had described in a story once. At least after that encounter he was shocked out of his daze and was no longer just standing around stupidly staring at everything. Still, everything was absolutely overwhelming, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to stop himself from jostling into someone every two seconds. By the time noon arrived and he had finally discovered a place to eat, Salazar was tired, sore, and hungry enough to eat a cow. Entering a filthy bar, he wearily ordered some water and bread.

"Tough day, sonny?" Salazar looked up just in time to see a buxom woman drop herself into the chair across from him, holding a mug of water and a hunk of bread.

"It's been a tough week overall," he replied wryly. "I only just got here today. I was wondering, do you know of any inns I could stay at, perchance?" She giggled.

"Yes, one look at you and I could tell you weren't from hereabouts. Well, son, there's an inn not quite far from here and it's plenty cheap as well. 'Course, conditions aren't the best, but prices can't be beat. It's called the Last Pony, with a horse head on the sign, just to the right of here. You can't miss it." Salazar thanked her, handed her a coin, and managed to make his way there.

Looking at his room, Salazar had to admit the prices were cheap. He could afford at least another two or three nights, even spending some money for food. Despite that, the inn was also the filthiest, nastiest place he'd ever been in. He would be sharing a room with six other men, and judging by the smell, they weren't exactly the best sort. Still, he had to admit it was better than sleeping on the streets. Placing his sack underneath his pillow, he patted his cot and went to sleep. It had been an exhausting day.

_A/N: Harry will be arriving next chapter, which will be much more exciting than this one. This chapter is mainly to provide a backstory for Salazar as well. Next chapter is when the plot really begins. As always, reviews are more than welcome—just not flames, please. _


End file.
